


Fëanorian Inferno

by Pollys_hymnia



Series: Impossibly Improbable AU's [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete crack, Fëanor escapes from area 51, Fëanor with a flame thrower, Fëanor with a knife, Fëanor with assault rifles, Fëanor with grenades, Gen, Hide your Wife, Hide your children, Modern AU, action movie like violence, area 51, dramatic explosions, improbable macgyver-like scenarios, it wasn't, lots of fire, questionable chemical reactions, references to historical blimps, someone thought it was a good idea to lock this elf up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 06:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/pseuds/Pollys_hymnia
Summary: The government severely miscalculates when they lock Fëanor up in Area 51.  If Rambo and MacGyver had a kid, his name would be Fëanor.  Basically Fëanor explodes his way out of a military base.  That's the entire plot.





	Fëanorian Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank [marta-elentari](https://marta-elentari.tumblr.com/), [wheresmybloodynauglamir](https://wheresmybloodynauglamir.tumblr.com/), and [actuallyfeanor](https://actuallyfeanor.tumblr.com/) for contributing in various ways to this mini disaster and encouraging me (for good or ill who can say).

It was one thing, Fëanor thought, to be lumped together with all the other ‘non-humans.’ It was entirely another to be accused of being an ‘alien.’ Not that it mattered really, but he had thoroughly lectured his captors on elvish history even up to being thrown into the cell he now occupied. He knew he would only be here for a little while anyway. There was no way they were going to keep him in this Eru-forsaken ‘secret’ military installation. The electrified bars sizzled menacingly but Fëanor simply smiled. Providing him with a power source was their first mistake.

With all his innate and cultivated stealth, Fëanor began to gather his raw materials from what was readily available to him. Some plastic cups here, some water there, a stray straw, a pencil, bits of tape. Then there was the gold he already had woven subtly into his still-braided hair. They probably should have confiscated that if they had known better.

The next night Fëanor began to assembly an improvised chemistry lab. Carefully, he set up his cups along the iron-barred door. Half of them he filled with water, and in the middle of these he placed a piece of the graphite from the pencil he had scavenged. The rest of the cups were stacked on top of each other with their lids bound together to act as gathering chambers. He connected everything with straws and tape as tightly as he could. Next he undid his braids and unraveled the gold from his hair. He ran some of this wire-like gold from the water-filled cups toward the electrified bars. Cautiously and without touching the wire itself, he connected the gold filament to the bars. Bubbles began to form in the water and the gas collected eventually into the sealed double-cups. Once Fëanor had the hydrogen, fire was the easy part. He was _Fëanáro_ after all.

When Fëanor judged that he had adequate fuel the next step, he pulled a strand of hair from his head. It sparked easily into a small flame at his bidding and he cast it toward the cluster of cups. He dove behind the cot that was the only furnishing the cell provided and waited. First there was a rush of air, then a sharp crack, followed quickly by a resounding boom as the gas and then bars exploded. Everything was engulfed in a Hindenburg-like wall of flame. 

Satisfied with his work, Fëanor rose and walked through both the flames and the blown-open door. He cast a glance to the left and saw a guard lying on the floor, blood dripping from his head. Fëanor stooped and took the guard’s gun and his knife without checking whether or not he was alive or dead. It would be easy now, he thought. Curufinwë Fëanáro had an assault rifle.

The alarm had sounded, and while it would have suited him well to run out of a burning building, guns blazing, he had the sense (for the moment) to conceal his escape route. With his elvish hearing, Fëanor detected the other guards coming long before they caught wind of his whereabouts. One unfortunate soul had the bad luck to be guarding the closest exit, and one bullet took him down. Fëanor then relieved him of his gun too, as well as a few grenades. He exited the building fully armed. 

As carefully as possible—that is, with using as few grenades as possible—he made his way toward a hangar where jeeps and other vehicles were stored. Despite Fëanor’s efforts, his location was quickly discovered (maybe no grenades would have been a better choice in hindsight). A circle of jeeps and trucks was beginning to surround him. No matter, they were hemming him into a garage full of gasoline. Another mistake.

Keeping his hunters at bay with an erratic shower of bullets and sporadically launched grenades, Fëanor worked quickly. He took the hose from a fire extinguisher (he had always hated them anyway) and hooked it up to large container of gasoline. Now he just needed a propellant. 

He connected another hose to a nozzle on a canister of compressed air and strapped it to his back. He connected the canister to the gasoline container. He was ready to go.

This time there was no need for subtlety as Fëanor burst through the hangar doors standing upright in a stolen jeep and steering it with his knees. He turned the valve on the air canister and 30 foot stream of fire spilled forth from the nozzle of the hose. He swept the torrent of fire broadly in an arcing motion, not missing a single truck or guard. No one challenged him as he left behind a mess of burning mayhem. He was almost free.

Now he made directly for the gate. The barricade they laid in front of him also fell to the fire and he piled right through it. 

However, Fëanor’s car too caught fire. He thought little of it at this point—he knew his sons would be waiting for him nearby. He was a little late perhaps, but that was entirely excusable given the circumstances. Fëanor sped down the highway until he saw a large black pickup truck with a tall redhead standing on top, a pair of binoculars held up to his eyes. Maedhros.

Fëanor’s stolen jeep lasted long enough to pull up alongside of the truck-full of sons. It sputtered to a stop and exploded just as Fëanor casually stepped out. 

“Your car’s on fire,” Maedhros remarked.

“Again,” Amrod added.

Curufin squinted and then nodded approvingly, “Nice flamethrower though.”

“Yes, I made do.” Fëanor climbed into the truck bed and banged on the roof with his fist, “Now let’s get going.” Maedhros jumped down and climbed back into the cab. He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. Maglor turned the radio up to full blast, “Legendary” by Welshly Arms playing loudly.

In the background, they heard what sounded like a large bomb going off, or several, and then the previously blaring alarms fell silent. There would be no pursuit, at least not for a while. Fëanor and his seven sons drove off into the sunset, with flames rising in the background and smoke in their wake.


End file.
